And then she was gone. Flint held her long afterward, still unaware of the battle outside. His grief threatened to tear him apart. He felt as though he never wanted to leave, to do anything again.
But as the chaos of the battle grew to a crescendo, his pain slowly changed, burning its way from his heart to his soul.
And as it moved, his mourning became anger, developing into a hot, blazing rage that at last compelled him to return to the fight, and to kill those who had slain Perian.
The gates of the brewery splintered open, and even from within the building Flint sensed the urgency of the fight. He reached for the axe Perian had returned to him back in Mud hole, cursing with surprise as the weapon's haft burned his hand. The white glow of the Tharkan Axe had become tinged with red, as the metal itself heated like an iron bar in a smith's forge.
Without thinking, Flint looked around the storeroom, quickly spotting a pair of leather gauntlets. He drew these over his hands, and then picked up the gleaming weapon.
Its razor sharp blade gleamed clean, ready to drink again.
Flint charged the door of the storeroom and threw it open, looking upon a scene of mass confusion in the court yard. The derro had smashed open the gate with a heavy battering ram and now poured into the enclosure, where they were met by a sturdy line of hill dwarves.
He concentrated his gaze, looking for one hated form. Fi nally Flint saw the hunchback, limping along behind the leading mountain dwarves.
"Pitrick!" he bellowed, charging into the courtyard. The force of his voice carried even above the din, and several of the mountain dwarves, including the thane's adviser, turned toward him.
"Come and die!" Flint challenged. He raised his axe, and though its unnatural light was somewhat mutted in the growing illumination of dawn, it drew the derro's eyes like a hypnotic token.
"Fireforge," breathed Pitrick, watching Flint's advance for just one moment. Then the hunchback seized the five heads of his iron amulet, and that cold blue light poured from the magic token.
"Reorx curse your cowardly skin!" Flint growled, sprint ing toward the savant. He knew he would never reach him before Pitrick cast his spell. Oddly, he felt no fear of his own death; just an overwhelming sense of sadness that so much other killing would remain unavenged.
Pitrick's sneer was all the answer he spared for his victim, then the derro barked the harsh command for his spell. A bolt of lightning suddenly sizzled from his hand, exploding toward Flint in a blast of magical death. The hill dwarf howled his rage, squinting against the blast of approaching magic, but not faltering in his charge.
Then the Tharkan Axe blinked brightly, and a white burst of light overpowered the pale dawn and caused Pitrick to close his eyes, crying out in pain. The axe shone as the light ning bolt crackled into Flint, and suddenly the spell was gone, inexplicably snuffed. Whatever the reason, Flint dimly realized it had something to do with the axe.
"Now you'll fight, scum!" hollered Flint in savage exulta tion. For reasons he did not stop to contemplate, the axe would protect him from Pitrick's magic!
Other mountain dwarf troops stepped in the way. Sud denly one of these was bashed away by Tybalt. Then Ru berik stepped to Flint's side, knocking back another of the savant's protectors.
"Face my blade, you miserable coward!" called the king of the gully dwarves, until only one guard stood between
Flint and Pitrick. He was charged by Fidelia, who cut him down with a blow.
"A hill dwarf will never best a mountain dwarf," Pitrick said, his tone threatening, challenging. Trembling with both fear and joyous anticipation Pitrick raised his axe finally, knowing that he could not defeat this hill dwarf with his spells. Flint raised the Tharkan Axe and the weapon lit up the courtyard.
Resolutely, the two leaders hammered their blades to gether. The hunchback was surprisingly strong, and both dwarves staggered back from the impact of their combined blow. The ringing noise filled the courtyard, and the hill dwarf found a savage satisfaction in the clash.
Flint pressed quickly forward, feeling the heat of his own weapon through his gloves. They clashed again, and once again fell back from the resounded collision. Scowling in concentration, Flint focused all his strength, his skill, and his hatred against the repugnant derro before him. Again and again he raised the blade high, driving forward with earthshaking blows that Pitrick somehow deflected.
Flint sensed the fight around them stopping, as derro and hill dwarf alike paused to watch the duel between their lead ers. A hundred individual combats waned, forgotten in the periphery of this fight to the death.
Flint and Pitrick raged back and forth, axes clashing, fine steel meeting steel, backed by muscle and fury. The thane's adviser attacked with bestial savagery. Suddenly he flew forward, unleashing a storm of lighting-quick blows. Flint fell back, desperately deflecting the mountain dwarf's cuts.
The Tharkan Axe blocked every assault, the haft growing hotter and hotter under his palms, until even his gloves could not protect him. Ignoring the searing pain, Flint held his axe tighter — he would cling to it until death or victory freed his grip.
Suddenly Pitrick lurched away. The quick retreat caught Flint off guard, and he instantly crouched, watching his op ponent warily.
Again the savant seized the iron amulet that hung at his neck and raised his fist toward Flint. With a sharp hiss, like hot rocks dropped into water, a line of blue sparks erupted from the Theiwar's hand. The embers seemed to hunger for
Flint's flesh as they rushed toward him. Swirling like living things, the sparks formed a ring around him.
Desperately the hill dwarf raised the Tharkan Axe and stumbled backward. The gleaming blade bit into the blue fire as if the flame were a solid body, striking true with the keen, avenging steel. Once, twice, and again Flint chopped, each time with growing force, breaking through the circlet of magic, knocking the stream of sparks to pieces. Slowly the pieces settled to the ground, and the arcane magic of the amulet lay as twisted ringlets of harmless smoke on the ground.
Both dwarves sprang at the other, and once again the fight became a test of physical strength and endurance.
Blinking his eyes to clear the sweat away, Flint ignored his fatigue. He saw only the hateful face of his enemy before him, and his own hatred coalesced with Pitrick's to form a cocoon of berserk rage around them. The derro smashed his axe again and again against Flint's blade, but suddenly the hill dwarf saw his opening. Ducking backward before the
Theiwar swung, Flint waited until the derro's attack swished harmlessly past his face.
Then he stepped in, putting every bit of the strength in his toughened muscles behind the blow. All his hatred and fury, all of his overpowering grief came together, focused by the driving power of his weapon. Pitrick tried to twist away, to turn or parry the punishing blow, but in his last instant he knew he would not succeed. Finally, for a brief second, Flint saw those mad eyes grow still madder, this time from stark terror.
It was a sight he would savor for a long time.
The Tharkan Axe cut a silver streak through the air, meet ing the savant's neck below his helmet and above his breast plate. The blade made a clean cut, severing the heads of his amulet, then his skin and muscle.
The blade finally came to rest near Pitrick's heart, jammed tightly into his collarbone and breastplate. The Theiwar commander staggered backward, tugging the weapon out of Flint's hand. Pitrick's blood soaked the once shiny blade of the Tharkan Axe, sizzling and scorching from the fiery heat of the metal. As he watched in disbelief, Flint saw the blade grow cherry red.
Pitrick's body twisted, then sagged to the ground. He dropped to his knees with a groan, looking in disbelief at the blood that spread in a growing circle around him. Finally he collapsed on his face in the mud, the pool of his blood grow ing ever larger.